


to hold such beauty in our hands

by stillmadeofgold



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: 5 + 1 Fic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, just wanted an excuse to write about laurents hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25340200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadeofgold/pseuds/stillmadeofgold
Summary: There’s a lone forgotten strand, tucked into the collar of Laurent’s navy sweater. Damen’s eyes linger on it for a long moment, briefly imagining a world in which he’d be allowed to reach forward and untuck it for him, fingers against the soft skin of Laurent’s neck. It’s a startlingly intimate thought to have surrounded by a hundred other strangers and Damen shifts in his seat, forcing his eyes away as Laurent pulls an elastic from his thin wrist and loops it around the end of his braid.Alternatively, five times Damen watches Laurent braid his hair and one time Damen braids it for him.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 232





	to hold such beauty in our hands

**1\. 18 & 22**

There are very few things lower on Damen’s list of priorities than his Intro to Sociology lecture. 

He’s a second-semester senior counting down the hours to graduation and it’s an 11 am two hundred student class in which attendance is not recorded. In other words, the fact that Damen even shows up is a miracle. 

He shows up because it’s a habit ingrained in him after the last three and a half years and, ultimately, because he has nothing better to do. But he does spend most of the hour and fifteen-minute block deciding what to get for lunch and falling down weird internet rabbit holes, one clickbait headline after another. 

Damen is very content to continue the rest of the semester in the same way. It’s a wait out the clock and cram everything the night before the final type of situation. 

Until he notices him. _Him_. 

Laurent. 

The blonde in the front row. 

Once Damen notices him, it’s hard to focus on much else— the elegant slope of his nose when he turns to the side, the way he handwrites his notes instead of using a laptop like the rest of the class, how he actually raises his hand and answers every question intelligently, eloquently, and succinctly. 

Suddenly his sociology class is ranked a few spots higher on the aforementioned list of priorities. 

Laurent sits alone every class, closed off in his high collared sweaters, his bag placed blatantly on the seat beside him to create a physical buffer between him and the next student. It’s a pretty clear signal and Damen’s forward, but he’s not an asshole. 

When he finally moves his seat, he sits in the row behind Laurent. From his new vantage point, he can see a lot more— the shape of his brow when it pinches in concentration, the way his foot fidgets against the leg of his desk, the ink stains on his long fingers when they twist through his long hair. It’s a good thing Damen’s already committed to paying zero attention to the professor because he’s never been as entirely captured by another person as he is by Laurent. 

He bides his time, waiting patiently until an organic opportunity arises for him to politely interject and charm his way into Laurent’s good graces. It’s a great strategy, that is, until Damen has to watch Laurent start braiding his hair absentmindedly, mid-lecture. 

Damen watches him tug out a tangle with his fingers with a dry throat, golden hair slipping through his grip like silk. 

There’s a lone forgotten strand, tucked into the collar of Laurent’s navy sweater. Damen’s eyes linger on it for a long moment, briefly imagining a world in which he’d be allowed to reach forward and untuck it for him, fingers against the soft skin of Laurent’s neck. It’s a startlingly intimate thought to have surrounded by a hundred other strangers and Damen shifts in his seat, forcing his eyes away as Laurent pulls an elastic from his thin wrist and loops it around the end of his braid. 

Damen sits back in his seat for another moment, steadfastly staring at a single point on the opposite wall, before his resolve finally crumbles— he leans forward and taps Laurent’s shoulder. If he can’t wait any longer for Laurent to notice him, he’ll manufacture an introduction that’s just as good. 

“Can I borrow a pen?” is what he manages, whispering so as to not draw the attention from the professor, smiling charmingly. 

Laurent twists in his seat and regards him for a long moment, flicking his blue eyes to Damen’s laptop and then back to his smile. Without a word, he procures another pen from his bag and hands it over. 

Damen takes the pen from him, holding on for a moment longer than necessary just so their fingers brush. “Thanks.” 

Laurent just nods and then after another pointed look at Damen’s desk, turns back around. Holding his newly acquired pen and feeling thoroughly judged for an interaction that lasted less than thirty seconds, Damen finally realizes the meaning behind Laurent’s weighted looks. 

With only his laptop on his desk, it’s abundantly clear that he has no real use of a pen. Damen holds the pen for another minute before committing and leaning over to grab his bag from the ground. There has to be some sort of paper in there to pretend to take his very important notes on. 

It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. 

Two days later, Damen gets to class ten minutes early and sits on the other side of Laurent’s bag. 

“Hey,” he greets, body turned as far as he can in his seat to face Laurent. 

Laurent, with an elbow on his desk, pauses what he’s doing and rests his chin against his fist to look at Damen. “Hello.” 

“I’m Damen,” he says, offering his hand across the empty seat. “We didn’t get a chance to talk more last time.” 

Laurent takes his hand and shakes it, grip firm and skin soft. Damen’s hand dwarfs his, but he only has a moment to ruminate on that before Laurent takes his hand back. “Laurent.” 

“I have something for you, Laurent,” Damen says. He holds the pen up between them with a smile and then snatches it back a few inches when Laurent reaches out to take it back. “Tell me something first.” 

For a second, it looks as if Laurent is going to protest, but his face smooths over and he tips his chin in acquiescence as if to say _go on then_. 

“Your number,” Damen announces with a little flourish of the pen. 

Laurent smiles, but there’s an edge to it. “Why? You don’t know me.” 

“That’s what the number is for— so we can fix that,” Damen tells him and then clicks the pen and hands it to Laurent. “Here, you can use this to write it down.” 

Laurent uses the pen on his own desk to push the offered pen away from his face. “You can keep the pen. My gift to you.” With that, he turns back to face the front of the room. 

“No number, then?” Damen asks easily. The sting of rejection hurts, but Damen can roll with the punches. Plus, he’s got the rest of the semester to get Laurent to warm up to him. At least the ice is broken. Consider him an optimist. 

Laurent taps the end of his pen against his nose twice with a haughty little smirk and Damen laughs. 

He spends the lecture half-listening to the professor talk through the rubric of an upcoming group project, and half-watching Laurent write his notes out of the corner of his eye. When they’re dismissed, Damen jumps up before Laurent can disappear from his sight. 

“Do you want to work together?” Damen asks, mustering his most charming smile. 

Laurent doesn’t even hesitate. “No, thank you.” He doesn’t look remorseful about it either, just works on packing his bag up and slings it over his shoulder. 

Damen keeps his smile, but he pointedly glances around the lecture hall and then back at Laurent. “Already have someone else in mind?” 

“Nope,” Laurent tells him. Damen likes the way his mouth looks like that, pursed and impenitent. “Goodbye, Damen.” 

Damen follows him from the room, keeping up with his long strides easily— one of the many advantages of being taller than everybody he knows. “Fine, I get it, none of my business,” he agrees, hands up in a show of surrender. “Can I ask why you don’t want to work with me, though?” 

“You didn’t take a single note today. You didn’t even _pretend_ to pay attention. I’m willing to bet that you haven’t done any of the readings.” He looks extremely unimpressed. Damen shifts uncomfortably— Lauren’t isn’t exactly wrong. 

But Damen’s never been known to give up that easily and tries to find a balance between contrite and charming. “That’s just more reason to partner with the smartest student in class, sweetheart.” 

Laurent scoffs. Damen’s starting to think that flattery and flirting aren’t the best tactics to use with him. 

“You’re a senior, yes?” Laurent asks. Damen doesn’t even have time to puzzle out how Laurent figured that out before Laurent is continuing. “Is this how you’ve scraped by for the past three years? Latching on to students that are actually here to learn?” 

“Hey, no,” Damen starts, offended now, standing straighter, shoulders tight. He grabs Laurent’s arm and pulls him around to face him, uncaring about stopping them in the middle of a crowded hallway. They both ignore the dirty looks everyone shoots them. “I’m not a bad student. I already have a job lined up after graduation. This is completely different. It’s an _intro_ lecture full of _freshmen_.” 

He’s definitely not going to tell Laurent that said job is for his dad, at the family company. He doesn’t think that’d help his case. But the point still stands. Just because Damen isn’t sweating about some easy A class that he can pass in his sleep doesn’t mean Laurent has a right to judge him. 

“So it’s my problem that this is beneath you?” Laurent huffs, shaking his arm out of Damen’s grip. 

“ _No_ ,” Damen stresses, frustrated now. He takes a step back, though, because he can’t ignore the way Laurent crossed his arms over his chest after Damen grabbed his arm. “Listen. I’m a _good_ student. I’m smart. When I asked you to be my partner, it wasn’t because I wanted to slack off. I just wanted to work with you.” 

Laurent stares up at Damen. After another beat, “Fine.” 

“What- really?” Damen perks up. “Fine?” 

Laurent nods once. “Fine,” he repeats. “We can work together.” 

“Cool,” Damen smiles. Any lingering irritation melts away as Laurent slowly uncrosses his arms and pulls his pen from his bag. 

Laurent grabs Damen’s hand in his and turns it over, uncurling his fingers until his palm is open and exposed. With another long look at Damen, Laurent tips his chin down and clicks the pen. 

Damen can’t look away. Hair falling loose from its place tucked behind Laurent’s ear, chewing on his bottom lip in concentration, cold fingers holding Damen still as he drags the pen over his skin-- it’s bewitching. Damen is utterly bewitched. 

Laurent drags the pad of his thumb over the ink once he’s finished, checking that it won’t smear, and then he steps back. Damen leaves his hand hovering in midair for another second after Laurent lets go. Then he turns it and reads it over. 

Printed in thin, slanted lines, is Laurent’s number. 

**2\. 20 & 24**

Damen’s phone buzzes against his thigh. He doesn’t have to take it out of his pocket to know who it is— there’s no doubt about it, it’s Auguste. He’s already texted Damen no less than nine times today with variations of the same message. 

Today is Laurent’s birthday. Apparently, this is a point of great contention between the brothers. Laurent prefers to barely acknowledge the day, but Auguste insists on a celebration every year.

Privately, Damen is on Auguste’s side. To Laurent’s face, however, he is sympathetic and soothing, the perfect picture of a supportive best friend. 

Tonight is meant to be a compromise— a smaller dinner hosted at Auguste’s apartment with a pre-approved guest list. Watching the negotiations had been fascinating. 

It’s a double-edged sword. Laurent is striking in all aspects— his beauty, wit, poise, the list is endless and Damen could waste a day going on and on. He truly is something to behold, which is exactly the problem. If Laurent had it his way, nobody would ever behold him beyond his own very strict boundaries. 

Laurent draws attention simply by existing. And Laurent hates it unless it’s on his own terms. 

Damen likes to think of himself as a good friend. Actually, Damen likes to think of himself as Laurent’s _best_ friend. That generally entails knowing when Laurent is uncomfortable and doing everything in his power to right the situation. He’s well versed in creating elaborate ruses with Laurent to leave parties or dinners early (usually with more flair than necessary because as much as Laurent hates attention, he does love to stir the pot). 

This time, though, there are no excuses to make. It’s his responsibility to make sure Laurent actually shows up and no part of Damen is interested in incurring the wrath of Auguste where Laurent is concerned. 

So he sits on the end of Laurent’s bed and dutifully watches him get ready lest he make a break for it, the sneak he is. It’s not exactly a sacrifice to watch Laurent, either. In fact, it’s one of Damen’s favorite past times. 

Laurent is not vain in any sense of the word, but he has been complaining about the darkening bags under his eyes for a few weeks now. November has brought with it a host of frigid temperatures and dry air to which Laurent is contending with on minimal sleep between his honors classes and internship. He rubs some type of lotion methodically into his skin and something else under his eyes, murmuring about Auguste overreacting and being overprotective. 

He truly is the most beautiful thing Damen has ever seen. 

Laurent groans quietly at his reflection in the mirror and tugs the elastic holding his hair high in an immaculate ponytail free. 

“Why’d you do that?” Damen protests halfheartedly. “You looked nice.” Which is certainly not a lie, but Damen thinks Laurent _always_ looks nice. Case in point: with his hair hanging around his face now, he still looks nice. 

Laurent sighs and gathers his hair back into his hands. “If I left it like that, I’d have a headache by the end of the night. I’ll probably have a headache anyway, but _c’est la vie_.” 

Damen lets his eyes sweep heavily over the line of Laurent’s bare neck when the hair is drawn to the side. It should be weird to feel such warmth over such a chaste image, but Damen has long since stopped being surprised about his body’s reactions to Laurent. 

Laurent braids his hair over his shoulder and then tucks a few loose strays behind his ears. 

“You have a lot of hair,” Damen manages, the words coming out stilted, like his tongue is suddenly too thick for his mouth. 

Laurent meets his eyes in the mirror and smiles. For such a simple gesture, it does wonders to Damen’s heartbeat. “Yes. So do you.” 

Damen matches his smile tenfold. Much to Laurent’s chagrin and Damen’s delight, they both are aware of how much Laurent loves his curls. 

Last year, at one of the many dinners they met for, Damen had come straight from work. His curls had been gelled flat in a misguided attempt to look more professional and mature for an important pitch meeting that day— the first one he had led since starting work after graduation. 

Laurent had not been shy in voicing his dislike for the new look. Yet, it’s a memory Damen cherishes. 

( _“I just don’t understand what would possess you to do this,” Laurent shakes his head. “Your curls look fine.”_

_“Fine?” Damen teases._

_Laurent rolls his eyes. “Please, you know what you look like.”_

_“No, really, I don’t,” Damen smirks, all teeth and pleased eyes. He enjoys the spreading flush on Laurent’s porcelain skin too much to reign it in now. “Go on. Tell me what I look like.”_

_“You’re so arrogant,” Laurent accuses. “You have a line of willing partners ready to tell you how attractive you are and still you waste your time needling me into paying you compliments.”_

_“You think I’m attractive,” Damen teases, leaning across the table in delight._

_Laurent flicks his hair out of his face and tips his chin up in an effort to maintain an air of mature superiority in the face of Damen’s childish behavior. “I think your_ curls _are nice,” he corrects. “Don’t push it.”_ )

It’s nice to think that Laurent might feel a fraction of what Damen does when he watches Laurent style his hair. 

With one last resigned look over himself in the mirror, Laurent steels himself and turns around. “Shall we go?” 

Damen stands, rolling his shoulders and stretching his spine as he unfolds. Laurent waits, patiently amused, for the little show to finish. 

“You look nice,” Damen finally says, grabbing the end of Laurent’s braid and giving it a gentle tug. 

“Yes, well,” Laurent sniffs. “If I must be anything on my way to the slaughter, let it be pretty.” 

Damen rolls his eyes, tugging Laurent’s braid once more. “You are such a drama queen.” 

Laurent pulls his hair from Damen’s hand and narrows his eyes. “What’s that adage about boys who tug on pigtails?” 

Damen laughs good-naturedly, but his chest feels tight at the underlying truth they’re so well-practiced at tiptoeing around. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t show it through hair pulling,” he says, smiling though his words are sober and earnest. 

Laurent’s phone rings loudly behind them. 

Laurent blinks and then whirls around to grab it from his dresser. He answers Auguste’s FaceTime and levels the screen with a chillingly apathetic stare. 

“Have you even left yet?” Auguste says in lieu of a greeting. 

“We’re getting a cab now, Auguste.” 

“Damen promised me you wouldn’t be late,” Auguste accuses. 

“Then you can be angry with him and not me if we are,” Laurent shrugs. 

Damen grabs Laurent’s coat and pulls him along with a hand around his wrist. “Let’s go.” 

“I’ll be there soon, happy?” Laurent asks his screen, trailing behind Damen as he locks his front door for him and pulls him along to the elevator. He says his goodbyes to Auguste with a smile despite his outward display of unwillingness. It’s not a secret that he’d do anything for his older brother, even if that includes enduring a night of torturous celebration on his own behalf. 

Damen hands over the coat once his hands are free and then offers his arm once Laurent’s shrugged it on. Laurent slips his hand into the crook of Damen’s elbow and sighs wistfully. “Lie to me and tell me this won’t be so bad.” 

“It won’t be so bad,” Damen repeats obediently. 

Laurent laughs, knocking his forehead against Damen’s bicep softly. “You’re a terrible liar.” 

**3\. 22 & 26 **

Damen knocks on Laurent’s door for the full thirteen seconds it takes to open. 

Laurent does not look happy about it. “I have neighbors,” he snaps, but nonetheless steps aside to let Damen inside. 

“You should really ask who it is before you open the door,” Damen scolds, doing Laurent’s bolt and chain on the door for him. 

“Damen, I literally _just_ buzzed you up. I knew it was you.” He’s in a pair of pajama shorts and an old crewneck that must have been Auguste’s at one point because Damen knows Laurent definitely never played high school hockey. His hair is still wet from a recent shower, unbrushed and pushed back from his face messily. He also looks largely unimpressed and put out, arms tightly crossed against his chest. 

“Still.” 

“Have I ever given any indication that I’m not entirely capable of taking care of myself?” Laurent asks. 

“No, but-,” Laurent turns and walks away, effectively cutting Damen off. 

Damen drops it and follows him into his tiny kitchen. There’s a half-full glass of wine on the counter and Laurent grabs another for Damen wordlessly. He pours him a generous serving and slides the glass to Damen. “Why are you here at one o’clock in the morning?” 

Damen takes a long sip and gives a half shrug. The truth is, Damen had gotten dressed as soon as Laurent broke the news over text a little over an hour ago. In response to a question about how his date had gone, Laurent had texted back, _It was short. We ended things._

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Damen says carefully. 

Laurent smiles against the rim of his glass, lips stained red from his wine. “Very chivalrous,” he commends idly. “But ultimately unnecessary.” 

Damen nods, unsurprised. In the four years he’s known Laurent, he’s never known him to be upset over a guy. There are men that Laurent grabs coffee, gets drinks, goes to dinner with for a few weeks at a time, but nobody has ever become more permanent than that.

“You did the same thing when I broke up with Jokaste,” Damen points out. 

“Yes, well..,” Laurent trails off, face pinched in the way that Damen knows means he has a lot to say about that particular subject and is exercising an extreme amount of self-control to stay quiet. Damen smiles fondly. 

“It’s what friends do for each other,” Damen tells him. 

Laurent quirks an eyebrow at that, holding Damen’s heavy gaze. He tips his head back, downs the rest of his glass, and sets it back on the counter behind him. “Go sit on the sofa. I’ll be right back.” 

When Laurent returns, he does so while brushing his hair. “I have plans early in the morning. I don’t want to deal with my hair,” he explains off-handedly. 

“Where are you going so early on a Sunday morning?” Damen asks distractedly. No matter how often Damen is privy to Laurent doing his hair, it never fails to render him in a state of awed stupor. 

“Bringing Nicaise to breakfast. He’s almost seventeen, you know. It’s never too early to start thinking about college applications.” Laurent threads his hair into a long braid and then runs his hand over it, feeling for any bumps or loose strands. He frowns when he finds a forgotten piece and tucks it into a fold without another thought. 

Damen’s face scrunches in a delayed reaction. He’s met Laurent’s little devil-in-training a handful of times before and none of them have been pleasant. “You’re going to interact with a teenager before noon on a weekend?” 

Laurent has been mentoring Nicaise since before Damen met him. They had been introduced through a volunteer program on campus that matched undergrads with students in the city that would benefit from positive role models. Damen doesn’t exactly see the appeal, but Laurent is wholly invested in him. “I’m going to buy him as much coffee and as many waffles as he could possibly want and in exchange, he’s going to listen to me lecture him about SATs and the College Board and scholarships for two hours. I think it’s a fair deal.” 

“Good luck.” 

Laurent, like always, can see right through him and smirks. Somehow managing to do it as gracefully as he does everything else, Laurent drops down onto the couch beside him and rubs the back of his wrist over an eye. Damen automatically drapes an arm around him. 

“I’m not upset about the date,” Laurent promises, but he shuffles closer until he can tuck his head in against Damen’s shoulder. 

“Okay,” Damen agrees easily. 

“We only went to dinner three times. I wasn’t in love with him. I barely even _liked_ him. He was dreadfully uninteresting.” 

Damen rests his palm against the top of Laurent’s head, holding him gently. “He didn’t deserve you, anyway,” he offers, solemn and serious and so, _so_ sincere. 

Laurent huffs, breath hot against Damen’s neck. “You don’t like anybody I see.” 

And what is there to say to that? Damen presses his lips together and lets them sit in their silence. He doesn’t think there will ever be a man he likes for Laurent, doesn’t think there will ever be another he’d trust enough to hold something so precious, to understand so completely, and to treat as reverently and respectfully as he deserves. 

“It’s just as well,” Laurent starts again eventually, sounding resigned and tired. “I would have broken it off soon anyway. I have to think about graduation and job hunting and applications for my Masters and-,” he breaks off into a yawn. 

How a yawn can be so endearing is beyond him, but Damen smiles and strokes his hand over Laurent’s drying hair. “Do you want to go to bed?” 

Instead of answering the question, in a fairly abrupt change of subject, Laurent says, “I don’t want Nicaise to think that I’m done with him just because I’m graduating.” He actually sounds upset and when Damen tries to get him to sit up so he can look at him, Laurent resists and presses closer into his neck. 

“He doesn’t think that,” Damen swears, quick to reassure, but Laurent shakes his head. 

“You don’t know that,” he counters, words muffled against Damen’s skin. 

“Laurent, Nicaise knows how much you care about him. You go above and beyond for him.” 

Laurent hums, but doesn’t argue again one way or the other. He just lays against Damen and breathes. 

Damen matches him breath for breath and strokes his hair, content. 

**4\. 23 & 27**

Damen watches through sleep-heavy, bleary eyes as Laurent pauses mid-whirlwind to sit on the edge of the bed and pull on his ankle boots. “You should stay,” he tries again. 

Laurent doesn’t even spare him a side glance. “I have class. If twenty hungover undergrads can find the strength to show up for a 9 am on a Friday, then I, as their TA, really have no excuse. Plus, it’s the week before finals. I need to be there.” 

Damen wishes he could take the moment to appreciate Laurent in this moment— there’s something about Laurent talking about getting his Masters and working as a teaching assistant and his research lab that always gets Damen going. He thinks he has a competency kink and Laurent is easily the most competent person he’s ever met. 

As it is, Damen only frowns. 

It’s hard to appreciate Laurent leaving when it’s not only Damen’s bed he’s leaving, but it’s also the morning after the first time they had sex— _no_ , the first time they made love. 

Whenever he pictured the night he finally got Laurent in his bed, a lazy, indulgent morning spent tangled together usually followed. From there, the daydream usually included months of passion, Laurent swooning as Damen got down on one knee to propose, and a wedding. 

The reality of Laurent checking the time on his watch and then speedily doing up the buttons on his shirt were clashing quite violently with those plans. “People haven’t been known to run from my bed like this,” Damen jokes. 

Laurent hums thoughtfully and pulls his hair away from his face, working it into three different sections to start a braid. “Forgive me if I’m not like the rest you’ve fucked,” he says primly, long fingers twisting his hair into a neat braid so quickly and efficiently that Damen finds himself sufficiently distracted. “Will your ego survive the blow?” 

Damen sits in silent fascination for another long moment, watching Laurent loop the end of his hair with an elastic produced from seemingly out of nowhere. It isn’t until Laurent stands again and leaves the room that Damen’s brain catches up with his mouth. He jumps from bed in his haste to follow, tugging the sheet behind him to hold it in bunched fists around his waist in an act of modesty. “Wait!” 

Laurent doesn’t acknowledge him, just goes about collecting his bag and his coat from the chair he had draped them over the night before. 

“You aren’t,” Damen tells him vehemently, voice forceful in the way it sometimes gets when he knows he’s right and is demanding to be listened to. His father calls it the voice of a leader. Laurent calls it arrogance. 

Laurent appraises him with one perfectly manicured raised brow, wrapping his scarf around his neck and pulling his braid free from underneath. “Aren’t _what_?” 

“Like the rest of them,” Damen explains. “You’re different.” 

“I’d hope so,” Laurent says, lip curling unpleasantly, and starts for the front door. 

Damen grabs him, big hand wrapping around his bicep, and holds him in place. “Laurent. Look at me.” He waits the few seconds it takes for Laurent to work through his usual stubborn bout of spite and then says, “You’re leagues above anybody else.” 

“That good, huh?” Laurent snipes, the white skin of his nose scrunching in either disbelief or disgust. But Damen knows Laurent well enough to see through the front— his bottom lip falling open in suppressed incredulity, a pink flush rising starkly across his cheeks. 

“You can keep trying to diminish what we had, to make it about just sex, but we both know that’s not what it was,” Damen says, leaning close enough that his words, firm and quiet, can still be heard.

Laurent lets out a little puff of air, nearly leaning into Damen’s tightening grip. “Isn’t that what it always is for you? Just sex,” he breathes. 

To kiss would only require the barest of movements from either one of them as close as they are. Laurent’s eyelids fall half-shut and Damen allows the sweep of his long lashes to stop the beat of his heart for a moment. Damen presses dry lips in a kiss against Laurent’s forehead and then finally releases him. “It’s not just sex with you,” he tells him, the confession honest and serious. 

Laurent stares at him, a little indent in his skin pressed between furrowed brows. It’s the same look he gets when he puzzles out the results of one of his research papers or tries to grade one of his more troubled undergrad’s assignment— like he’s trying to figure it out, trying to figure out what Damen means exactly. 

“I really have to go,” Laurent says quietly, sounding less sure of himself than Damen’s ever heard him. 

“I know, I know,” Damen soothes. If Laurent’s analytical brain is having trouble making sense of what Damen is offering, he’ll just have to be clearer. “But before you go, you should know that I’ve been in love with you for years and when I kissed you last night, I did so with the intention to make it the first of many.” 

Laurents’ chest stutters and his eyes close for a beat. Damen’s never seen him so unraveled. In his quiet little kitchen, with the winter sunshine peeking weakly through the blinds, it feels like they’re standing on the precipice of something bigger than either one of them. 

Damen isn’t afraid, though. He lays a soft kiss over each of Laurent’s eyelids and says, “You’re going to be late.” 

It’s enough to reboot Laurent. “You have terrible timing,” he admonishes, but pushes up onto his tiptoes to kiss Damen, open-mouthed and sweetly shy. 

Then he strokes over Damen’s stubbled jaw once and leaves. 

When Damen makes his way back to his bedroom, his phone screen is already lit with a text from Laurent. 

_meet at mine for lunch?_

**5\. 24 & 28 **

“Remind me why you decided it was a good idea to move on the hottest day of the year?” Laurent pulls the front of his t-shirt away from his chest with pinched fingers, looking uncomfortably warm. He’s never done as well in the heat as Damen does. Though, to be fair, not many people do as well in the heat as Damen does. He seems to thrive in it. 

He’s looking forward to many arguments over the thermostat in the coming months until they find a happy medium. 

“Remind me why you insisted I not hire professional movers?” Damen shoots back, replaying the same argument they’ve had at least three times already today. 

“Ah, the sound of domestic bliss,” Auguste teases, reappearing from inside the moving truck with his arms full. “Love is a beautiful thing.” 

Damen is fairly certain the kiss he gets from Laurent is only to challenge Auguste’s playful taunts, but he’s not complaining. He’s happy to take whatever kisses his boyfriend is offering, in the name of pettiness or not. 

Laurent kisses him thoroughly until Auguste has walked past and gone inside and then he pulls away, swiping his thumb at the corner of Damen’s mouth. “Alright,” Laurent nods, satisfied. “Back to business.” 

“Guh,” Damen remarks intelligently. 

Laurent grabs one of the many boxes labeled ‘books’ (Damen thinks 80% of Laurent’s boxes are just filled with books) and pauses to observe Damen. “Get it together, sweetheart,” he says, very helpfully. 

As soon as Auguste makes it back down to the street, Damen grabs two more boxes and follows Laurent up. Their new building is nicer than either of their old apartments were. It’s farther away from school than Laurent’s old place was, but he’s nearly finished with his Masters anyway and is already looking elsewhere for his Ph.D. It is closer to Damen’s work though, which is a nice bonus. 

He runs into Laurent in the hall outside of their new front door, irritation plain on his face. The bun he’s sloppily twisted his hair into to combat the heat has fallen free for the umpteenth time since they started the move. 

“It’s times like these that I consider having my way with the nearest pair of scissors,” Laurent says blithely. 

“Don’t.” The force of the single word startles both of them. Damen clears his throat and tries again, softer this time, “Don’t do that. Just… put it up. I’ll find you some pins.” 

Laurent shakes his head, knowingly amused. “Needle in a haystack,” he says. “Don’t bother. Go put those down.” 

Damen can’t help but agree, thinking of the mountains of boxes still in the truck as he follows Laurent’s orders and drops the boxes of books in what will soon be their new living room.

When he gets back down to the street, he finds Auguste handing something over to Laurent and then, in typical big brother fashion, ruffling his hair until Laurent bats his hand away. 

It’s one of Auguste’s athletic headbands, what he gave to Laurent. Auguste’s hair is nowhere near as long as Laurent’s, but it’s long enough to fall in his eyes during runs, hence the need for a headband. Laurent pulls it over his head and then pushes it up until it’s in place, smiling at his newly uninhibited-by-hair view. 

Auguste clasps a hand over his heart. “I love it when you follow in my footsteps.” 

Laurent ignores him in favor of focusing on gathering his hair between his hands and parting it for a braid. Damen steps in, pausing him with a big hand pressed to the side of Laurent’s neck. He carefully collects the missed strands and offers them to Laurent. 

“Thank you,” Laurent breathes, flushing unexpectedly at such a simple gesture of care. Damen leans down to lay a tender kiss over one of his brows, chest warm. 

It’s one of Damen’s favorite things in the world, how Laurent finds such pleasure in and opens like a flower in the sun at such small acts of love and kindness. 

When Laurent’s nimble fingers resume their weaving, they do so with the slightest tremble. 

Auguste grabs another box. “It’s fine. You guys have your moment. I’ll just keep carrying all of _your_ things into _your_ new apartment. Free of charge. Out of the goodness of my heart.” 

“Is he going to keep going?” Damen whispers conspiratorially. 

“Don’t worry,” Laurent reassures Auguste absently, eyes flitting to his brother over Damen’s shoulder. “Nikandros is coming soon. He’ll help you.” 

Damen laughs, leaning down again to kiss the corner of Laurent’s mouth. “You’re a menace. I love you so much.” 

**+1. 26 & 30 **

Damen finds Laurent hiding away in a little alcove. 

“Oh, good, you found me,” he rushes, looking pleased, and pulls Damen closer and out of sight. 

“I came to terms with your affinity for escaping parties a long time ago,” Damen says, wrapping his arms around Laurent easily. “But for some reason, I thought our wedding reception would be an exception. How silly of me.” 

Laurent tips his head back and kisses the underside of Damen’s jaw, humming his acknowledgment. “I’ve had more champagne than I intended on. I just wanted some air,” he explains, and then adds after a moment, “And a moment alone with you.” 

“It would have been easier if you had told me that,” Damen smiles, threading his fingers through Laurent’s hair and holding the crown of his head. 

“I knew you’d find me.” 

Laurent, with one hand on Damen’s shoulder, uses his other hand to press his thumb into Damen’s dimple. His smile is easy, serene. He’s flushed from the champagne, blue eyes bright and lips pink. He’s so beautiful. He’s everything Damen has ever wanted and so much more. 

“You’re a vision,” Damen tells him, one hand trailing up and down Laurent’s back to keep him pressed close. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

From down the hallway, they can hear the band start another song. “You still owe me a few dances,” Damen reminds him. 

Laurent nods and attempts to blow a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “Fine, but you have to do me a favor first.” 

Damen bumps his nose against Laurent’s, giving in without a moment’s hesitation. “What do you want?” 

“Will you braid my hair? I want it out of my face.” 

Damen pulls back, raising a brow. “Really? You want me to do it?” 

Laurent extracts himself from Damen’s embrace and reassuringly pats him twice on his chest. “I believe in you.”

Damen takes the offered elastic and waits until Laurent turns around, leaving him with a sheet of perfect golden hair to mold to his liking. He feels confident in the face of his daunting task, both because Laurent makes it look so easy and because confidence is usually Damen’s default state. 

He’s as gentle as he always is with Laurent as he sets about collecting it all in one hand— he’s got such sensitive skin and his scalp isn’t any different. The next step is easy enough, too, and he parts the silky hair into three, albeit slightly uneven, sections. It’s the twisting together step that wavers Damen’s confidence and ultimately shatters it. 

When he gets to the end, it’s holding together, but it doesn’t look nearly as good as even Laurent’s messiest and quickest jobs. 

Laurent traces his hand from the back of his head to the tip of his braid, laughing as he goes. “It’s very bumpy,” he notes. “And somewhat crooked.” 

Damen smiles and sheepishly admits, “There was a point that I only had two parts. I don’t know how I lost the third.” 

“You’re not a visual learner, are you?” Laurent teases, which… yeah, fair enough. With eight years of dropping everything to watch Laurent do his hair under his belt, Damen should be a braiding expert by now. 

“More of a hands-on kind of guy, actually,” Damen concedes and breathes a laugh from his nose. “Are you going to redo it?” 

“No,” Laurent shakes his head. “I like it.” 

“That’s very sweet of you.”

Laurent shakes his head again. “I just think it’ll be funny to blame you for the rest of our lives whenever somebody asks about my hair in our wedding photos.” 

Laurent only just narrowly escapes Damen’s hands when he reaches out for his waist, laughing as he goes. “Come on, husband, you owe me a dance,” he calls over his shoulder, proudly swinging his braid back and forth as he walks back to the reception. 

Damen watches him go, feeling like his heart is too big for his chest. “Coming,” he calls back, and follows Laurent. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi! thank u for reading! 
> 
> i am [@princestarburst](https://princestarburst.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to possibly [reblog/like the fic post](https://princestarburst.tumblr.com/post/623912912480796672/to-hold-such-beauty-in-our-hands-stillmadeofgold) or just come talk to me about laurent's hair! i kind of want to make this verse into a series so if you have any ideas, feel free to drop them there too!! :) 
> 
> this was written in the span of 1 day and it's not beta'd and it's my first fic in this fandom AND my first time writing one of those 5+1 things so... i make no claims about the quality lmao but it was fun to write! 
> 
> the title vaguely comes from the goldfinch soundtrack bc i listened to it a lot while writing this. also, this fic is inspired by me finally teaching myself how to french braid my hair. 
> 
> thanks again for reading :)


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